Disclaimer: The Winter Soldier does not belong to me. Sorry for the hiatus.

"OK, here's a towel."

Bucky blinked. He was standing in Natasha's living room, barely comprehending the events of the last half hour. After she had walked him to her car, he had felt himself relax. There was something strong and self assured about this woman - something which indicated that she would not be easily intimidated or cowed. He accepted, and swallowed.

"Thank you."

His voice was hoarse, raspy. She nodded. "Shower is just upstairs and down the hall to your left."

He turned, feeling the softness of the cotton fabric in his was comforting - he held it up, and inhaled. A light scent came to him. Floral. Probably the conditioner she used. Or maybe her perfume. As he walked upstairs, and into the bathroom, he refused to look back. Walking into the bathroom, he opened the panel door to the shower. As he turned on the hot water, he began to remove the filthy tunic. He pulled off the top, and began to untie the waistband of the pants.

He turned, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face froze, and he felt himself choking.


Natasha blinked, leaning over the sink. She'd told Sam and Steve to go home, stating she would see them later that day. Steve had looked as though he were ready to collapse, and Sam, normally voluble, hadn't argued.

On the drive back to her two storey townhouse, she had kept her eyes on the road, not looking at the man slumped in the passenger seat. He'd looked lost, confused. Vulnerable. She'd swallowed, trying to reconcile this broken man with the confidently arrogant individual she'd seen in magazines. After a brief drive, they'd arrived, and she'd ushered him out.

When he'd gone upstairs to shower, she'd gripped the sink. He was so thin - her Russian mother would have been horrified. She smiled to herself, fingering the silver neckchain she wore.

Suddenly, she jumped. She heard a crash, coming from upstairs. Without pausing, she turned and began to run for the hallway, and the stairs.


He stood, slightly shocked. He'd slammed his hands down on the sides of the sink, not bothering to consider the noise that it would make. Looking down into the sink, he felt his breathing coming in short, shallow gasps.

The drumming of the water meant he didn't hear the knock on the door. "Bucky, are you-"

He turned, his face paling. Natasha was standing in front of him, her jaw dropping. "OK, I should have-"

He looked at her. "I know. Its repulsive, isn't it?"

"Those bruises," she whispered. "How...?"

He looked down at his chest. "I-" He folded his arms against it, protectively. "I - well-"

"You're hurt," she said, simply.

He shook his head. "No, its fine. Really."

She took a step towards him. "Listen - turn round."

He blinked. "What?"

"Could you turn round?"

He did so, silently. She swallowed, shocked. There were bruises on his back, and what appeared to be a long, deep, scratch. "Look, at least let me fix that for you."

He turned, and nodded. "OK."

"Come back downstairs then."

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